


Rapunzel in the Paper Cage

by BelladonnaLee



Series: Castle and Cage [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Drama, M/M, POV First Person, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 11:52:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelladonnaLee/pseuds/BelladonnaLee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <i>No More Than a Sand Castle</i>. Trapped in the tower of his own making, Gellert Grindelwald tries to fend off his boredom with his imaginative charade -- until the wizard who locked him up in the tower sends him a letter and starts a little game of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rapunzel in the Paper Cage

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

The tower was my castle; the guards and the other prisoners were my royal subjects; the cell was my velvet-lined chamber -- but of course, it was nothing more than an exercise of my abundant store of imagination, my _flying fancy_ , as he had once so affectionately called it.

One supposed my imagination was my saving grace and my downfall, for the cage in which I was currently trapped in was of my own design, my own making. And the one who kept me under locks and keys in this little cage of mine happened to be the very same man to whom I once shared my vision with.

Life within this fortress of a prison was monotonous and forlorn. My one and only escape was through my foolish little charade, although I would like to think my greatest enemy was a lethargic being called boredom, instead of the looming beast by the name of despair.

And then, the letter came, from my captor to me. The letter was nothing more than a piece of blank parchment: not a word was written on it, not even the faintest of whisper could be heard from it. Had I not known Albus Dumbledore was never the spiteful type, I would be inclined to think this letter was a mocking protest against me, for all that I had done and all that I did not do.

I burnt the letter then, with what little wandless magic I could perform still.

After a while, another letter came, another blank page devoid of words, another victim for the stake. And then another, and another, and another. When I finally realized those harassing letters were not about to stop any time soon, I gave up burning them all. At the very least, I could use these unspoiled sheets to elevate some of my boredom: write a story, compose a poem, make a paper plane, create an army of bewitched paper animals -- the possibilities were endless.

And yet, of all the things I could do, I never once wrote to him. For what was there left to be said?

Sometimes, I wondered at the meaning of these empty letters. Were they meant as a reminder that I dwelt still in a corner of his mind, that I held in my hand still a piece of his heart? Or were they reminders to himself, for all the follies he had committed in his life, many of which were connected to me? Or perhaps, he sent these parchments to me because he knew I would be bored? Whichever case it may be, I probably shall never know.

Although, I could not deny that his silent correspondence had grown on me, like an opium-user who had become dependent on the curling purple smoke as intangible as those languid opiate dreams it produces.

And then, one foggy afternoon, he came to me; I confessed I was completely taken by surprise.

The lines upon his face had become more pronounced now; and those auburn locks of his had turned into an overcast grey. Even so, those clear blue pupils of his remained unchanged, still reflecting in their depth the unreachable summer sky from once upon a time.

I wondered what those eyes beheld as they gazed at me: a withered man, slightly unhinged in mind, living in a gloomy prison cell filled with sheets after sheets of dark crimson writing and absurd, childish artefact made of parchments?

Without further ceremony or needless small talk, he dove into the events that were happening outside these impregnable walls, of a certain rising dark lord named Tom Riddle. Ah, there would always be a dark lord or two for the hero of the light to slay. It mattered little to me whether or not this Tom Riddle would bring about the end of the world; my chapter within the history of magic was finished a long time ago.

Surely he had realized that as well? There was never a need for him to come here in person when he could simply put whatever he had wanted to say in writing; and I told him as much.

The light in those azure blue eyes dimmed, as though a veil had been cast over them. With a hesitant air that was eerily akin to the last time many years ago, he reached out and held my cheek, his hand warm as the sun on a lazy afternoon. The long-forgotten human touch made me forget I was trapped in a tower where the only escape was death. Nevertheless, I did not allow myself to yield to his touch; once was enough.

It might be the case that he was still clinging onto this paper-thin thread of ours; but I had already let go of my end of the string on the day when he chose to spare my life out of his cruel mercy.

As though he could hear my thought, he pulled away from me. I felt no mental fingers probing my mind. Perhaps he did know me better than I thought he did; perhaps he knew me far too well.

Before he left, he told me he would not come here again. Yes, it was time for him to put a permanent period to our tale, and to begin a new chapter of his own with a new set of characters. A wry smile was tucking at the corner of my lips; there was something immensely amusing about this little farewell party of ours, an irony of all ironies.

Clearly puzzled by my smile, he gazed at me, before taking my hand and kissing my fingers lightly. The burning sensation I thought I had forgotten years ago suddenly came back to me once more; it had truly been too long. And his subdued blue eyes were dyed a beautiful indigo, glowing with such dark intensity it nearly blinded me.

For once, I did not pull away.

After the farewell party was over, I thought his letters would cease, but they did not. While it was still nothing more than a piece of blank, silent parchment, a sheet of pure white had spoken much more than words alone could utter.

There would surely come a day in some distant future when no more letters would be delivered. But for now, I would continue to play this little charade of my own, all the while wondering when would that beloved wizard of mine get tired of his little game.

\-- He never did, not in his lifetime.

* * * * * * *

__

_Finis._

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Sometimes, silence means so much more than words ever do, for it leaves greater room for your imagination to fly. This is a what-if scenario of the time when Grindelwald was imprisoned. I was under the impression that in the canon world Dumbledore would never actually send him any letters, but what if he did? Thank you very much for reading.


End file.
